Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAISIE
The unmistakable peaty aroma of whisky permeates the air as thirty-odd representatives from local pubs and hotels mill about the distillery’s event room. It’s a testosterone-heavy crowd, mostly men in crisp button-down shirts or branded polo shirts that scream “hospitality industry”. There’s a scattering of women too, though we’re definitely in the minority.
I’ve been here about five minutes, making small talk with a fifty-something chap from a pub in Inverness. I’m only half listening. My attention keeps drifting to Jamie, who’s not far from me, chatting to someone about beer kegs. Hardly edge-of-your-seat material, but you never know when he might let slip his plans for the Snug.
The Inverness publican and I chat for a while longer before he politely excuses himself, likely noticing my attention is elsewhere. But before I can move closer to Jamie, I’m intercepted by Johnny MacDonald, an old school friend who works at the nearby Glen Garve Hotel.
“It’s good to see you, Maisie,” he says cheerfully. Tall with long dark hair tucked behind his ears and piercing blue eyes, Johnny is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s kind too—but alas, he’s not on the market. He’s head over heels with David, a lovely bloke who moved up from London a couple of years back. And honestly? They might just be the cutest couple in Bannock.
“Is your da here?” Johnny asks after we’ve shared a quick hug.
“No, he’s manning the fort today. Are you here by yourself too?”
Johnny shakes his head. “I’ve got Robbie with me. He understands whisky, whereas I happily drink it but haven’t got a clue. I thought Glenfiddich was a character from Lord of the Rings until about two years ago.”
He nods to the far side of the room, where his brother, Robbie, is inspecting a display cabinet of rare whiskies, his tattooed arms folded over his broad chest. While Johnny works in management at the Glen Garve Resort, Robbie is part of the hotel’s maintenance team—the brawn behind its operations. Although the brothers share the same colouring and tall stature, that’s where the similarities end. Where Johnny radiates easy charm and twinkling blue-eyed smiles, Robbie has the kind of brooding presence that could darken a sunny day.
Jamie’s rich, throaty laugh snags my focus. He and the bloke he’s been chatting with are now clapping each other on the back. With a final chuckle and a nod, Jamie wraps up their chat then heads over to us, his lopsided grin as annoyingly attractive as ever. He offers Johnny a handshake and the two of them exchange a few words.
Robbie makes his way over next, nodding briefly in my direction before shaking Jamie’s hand too.
“McIntyre,” Robbie rumbles.
“MacDonald,” Jamie replies.
What is it with men and addressing each other by their surnames? Is it some ancient ritual? A chest-thumping display of male camaraderie? Or just a convenient way to avoid the disaster of forgetting someone’s first name? Honestly, it baffles me, and yet I can’t deny there’s something ridiculously hot about how they do it, all gruff and gravelly.
“You keeping well?” Robbie asks Jamie, who shrugs affably.
“No complaints.”
“Glad to hear that,” Robbie says with sincerity.
I blink. That’s... strange. For so many reasons. First, I can’t remember ever hearing Robbie MacDonald ask after, well, anyone. He doesn’t really do small talk or pleasantries. And second, there’s bad blood between Jamie’s family and Robbie, or at least I thought there was. And yet here these two are chatting to each other like civilised human beings.
Kyle, one of the distillery staff, claps his hands loudly. “If everyone could please take their seats.” He gestures to the round tables that have been set for the tasting.
Floorboards creak and chairs scrape. Soon Johnny, Robbie, Jamie, and I are all sitting together at a table, each of us with six small tulip-shaped glasses in front of us.
Kyle kicks things off with an enthusiastic introduction and overview of the plan for the evening, which will basically consist of a guided whisky tasting followed by a bit more mingling.
“If you need them,” Kyle continues, “there is a spittoon in the centre of each table. No judgement if you do—we want everyone to have a safe journey home!”
“Ach, I’ll be making use of that, then.” Jamie leans back in his chair and gives me a sideways smirk. “Lucky you. You get to swallow.”
Johnny coughs as if to mask a laugh, while Robbie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything—not surprising given he speaks about six words per week.
I blink at Jamie, thrown by the sheer audacity of the double entendre—and by the fact he has absolutely no shame about it. Truth be told, a tiny part of me wants to laugh, but I’d never give him that satisfaction.
“Wow, Jamie. Subtle as ever. Do you use that line on all the ladies, or am I just lucky today?”
Thankfully, before Jamie can come out with anything else, a staff member comes over to pour us all our first whisky, and that seems to shut him up. At least for now.
“All right!” Kyle says. “Let’s kick things off with our first dram—a twelve-year-old aged in sherry casks.” Kyle holds his glass aloft like it’s an ancient relic deserving reverence. “First things first, we need to nose the whisky.” He models how to do so.
I swirl my glass then take a slow inhale of the amber liquid. The scent is rich—sweet, yet earthy.
“Anyone care to share what they’re picking up?” Kyle prompts.
I raise a hand but Jamie is quick to speak. “Apples and... maybe a touch of caramel?”
Damn it. I was going to say caramel.
Kyle nods encouragingly, his smile widening. “Excellent! Spot on. The caramel comes through subtly—good palate. And now to taste.”
He models the technique and I follow suit, taking a small sip and letting the liquid roll over my tongue. It’s smooth and velvety at first, but then comes the warmth—the almost fiery burst of flavour that spreads across my palate like wildfire. I take my time, swirling it in my mouth, trying to pinpoint the layers hidden within.
“Any comments on the palate notes?” Kyle asks once everyone has swallowed or used the spittoon.
“There’s definitely spice here,” someone says from another table.
Kyle nods. “Any specific spice coming through with the finish?”
The moment it clicks, I part my lips to speak.
“Cinnamon!” Jamie blurts, stealing the word right off the tip of my tongue.
“It’s more than just cinnamon,” I say, unwilling to let him steal the spotlight again. “There’s a touch of nutmeg in there as well.”
“And if you really focus on the finish,” Jamie adds, swirling his glass like he’s some whisky aficionado on a TV documentary, “there’s clove too. It’s very subtle, though.” His eyes lock onto mine, daring me to rise to the challenge.
“Actually—” I begin but I’m cut off by Kyle clapping his hands.
“Thank you, both! Excellent observations—very thorough.” He gestures towards another table. “Let’s hear from the rest of the room now.”
Jamie smirks triumphantly, basking in the victory of having the final word. I shift my attention to the other speakers—better than looking at his smug face.
The second whisky, an eighteen-year-old single malt aged in bourbon barrels, is even more intriguing than the first. Honey and toasted almonds greet me, with vanilla and spiced orange teasing my palate. I savour the velvety warmth as it blooms through me, the finish lingering like wood smoke and dried fruit. My tongue peeks out instinctively, tasting the lingering traces.When I lower my glass, I catch Jamie’s gaze on me, specifically my lips.
Just like earlier in the car, he averts his eyes the moment he realises I’ve caught him looking.
“I’m getting raisin,” I announce to the table. “Anyone else?” I look pointedly at Johnny and Robbie.
“No, not raisin,” Jamie states with confidence. “More like dates.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I know what I’m tasting, Jamie.”
“I also got dates,” Robbie grumbles.
Jamie grins at me, entirely too pleased with himself. Honestly, what is it with this guy? One moment he’s all flirty banter, then I catch him staring at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve, and the next he’s goading me. It’s like trying to dance a reel with someone who keeps changing the steps—I can’t keep up!
I briefly consider telling him to shove it. But instead I tip back the rest of my dram—far too quickly, as it turns out. The whisky rushes down my throat with a fiery kick, and I have to swallow hard to smother a cough.
“You all right there, Maisie?” Johnny asks, concern evident in his voice.
Jamie pours me a glass of water. “Careful, Maisie. If you’re this flustered after two drams, I dread to think what you’ll be like after six.”
I glare at him and take a sip of the water. Across the table, I swear I see a flicker of amusement cross Robbie’s usually impassive face.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Jamie. I can handle a dram—or ten—better than most men in this room.”
Jamie can’t hold back a grin. He really is having the time of his life at my expense.
I force myself to take a steadying breath, reminding myself why I’m here. This isn’t about playful sparring—it’s about business.
As dram number three—a twenty-year-old aged in rum casks—is being poured, I seize the opportunity to steer the conversation back on track. “So,” I begin lightly, “any special events happening at the Bannock Hotel over the summer?”
He shrugs. “The same as every year. The tourists will keep us busy.”
Johnny nods. “Aye, no rest for the wicked, eh? Especially with the Highlands being such a hot spot in the summer. And we’re set to have a good one this year.”
No, I wasn’t after general chitchat—I was trying to tease out Jamie’s plans for the snug. But honestly? It’s like pulling teeth.
The evening rolls on, and by the time dram number four makes its way into my glass, a pleasant languid sensation is unfurling through me. I lift the glass, swirling it gently before inhaling the aroma. It’s rich and complex with layers that tease at familiarity but refuse to be pinned down. After another few seconds it hits me.
“Dark chocolate!” Jamie and I declare at the same time.
Our eyes meet over our glasses. I lower mine. “I would say great minds think alike, but I feel that’s giving you far too much credit.”
Jamie grins, unbothered by the jab. “Ah, but fools seldom differ,” he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To our shared foolishness, then?”
Damn it. Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. I try to fight it—I really do—but I can’t help it. I tear my gaze away, focusing instead on swirling the whisky in my glass like it might hold all the answers.
The room hums with idle chatter as we move on to the next round of nosing and tasting. But it’s during the sixth and final sampling that something unsettling happens. As I lift my glass to my lips, I catch Jamie tipping his head forward to spit into the spittoon. It’s something I’ve been avoiding watching all evening—it feels oddly intimate, almost too personal for public scrutiny—but now that I’ve accidentally caught sight of it, I can’t help but notice the curve of his jaw, the flex of his throat...
It shouldn’t be hot. And yet, somehow, it absolutely is.
For some strange reason I can’t fathom, my gaze stays glued to him. He’s saying something to Robbie now—something about blended malts—while he idly twirls his glass between his long fingers in a slow, deliberate roll. It’s an absent-minded motion, casual and effortless, yet there’s something about the way his fingers move—strong, controlled, assured—that has my imagination spiralling into very dangerous territory.
A flicker of heat blooms low in my belly, and before I can stop it, the faintest noise slips past my lips.
Jamie pauses his conversation and glances my way. “Did you say something?”
My cheeks burn. “Just clearing my throat,” I manage, reaching for the jug of water.
Despite my earlier bravado about being able to hold my drink, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the whisky might be going to my head... just a wee bit. Sure, the tasting samples are smaller than your typical pub measure, but... there have been a fair few of them. And it doesn’t help that I’ve not eaten in a while. Total rookie mistake, and especially embarrassing considering I work in a pub.
Kyle soon wraps up the tasting session, inviting guests to come over to him or the distillery team with any questions. These events, of course, are often more about the networking than they are about the booze itself.
People push to their feet and low murmurs of conversation fill the air. Jamie is already up and moving across the room.
I make to stand myself, but the moment I’m upright, a sudden wave of light-headedness washes over me. The ground doesn’t exactly shift beneath me, but for a split second everything feels slightly off. I grip the back of my chair for balance, blinking a couple of times as I take a steadying breath. Aye, I’m really regretting not having an early dinner now.
Once I feel stable again, I slip my bag over my shoulder and straighten up.
Kyle’s voice carries faintly over the hum of chatter—he’s talking to some guests by the far wall—but it’s Jamie I focus on. He’s now chatting with a couple of staff members. Right, this is why I’m here. Business. Networking. And, more importantly, information gathering. Might Jamie’s plans for the snug have something to do with the distillery?
I make my way across the room at an unhurried pace. Staying close to him feels like my smartest move for now. Close enough to eavesdrop, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. This is where my secret agent skills come into play—if I have any. And if they work when I’m drunk.
As it turns out, I do a pretty damn good job, if I do say so myself. I manage to have a chat with Claire, who works here and is a Bannock girl, while at the same time keeping half an ear tuned to Jamie’s conversation. I pick up bits and pieces, but nothing that sounds particularly important—at least, not yet.
The problem is that, between the whisky drinking and the water guzzling, my bladder has reached critical capacity—the kind of fullness that simply cannot be ignored. Do real-life spies have to contend with this? What happens when you’re in the middle of a mission and the need to go hits you? Because, knowing my luck, the second I go to the bathroom will be exactly when Jamie spills all his secrets.
I hold out as long as I can—a valiant effort, really—but eventually I just can’t put it off any longer without compromising basic human dignity. And so I have to ask Claire where the toilets are.
Right, I’ll be quick. I probably won’t miss a thing.
Except... there’s a bloody queue! Of course there is. Because life as a woman involves queuing for loos like we’re waiting to enter some exclusive nightclub instead of just desperately needing to pee. And there weren’t even that many women at the event! Did our bladder alarms all go off simultaneously?
Oh, to be a male secret agent! Twenty seconds at a urinal, shake shake , job done, then straight back in the game. It’s so unfair.
When I return (ah, the relief of an emptied bladder—truly one of life’s uncelebrated joys), Jamie is deep in conversation with Kyle. His gestures are purposeful, his hand slicing through the air as Kyle nods along intently. There’s something about their body language—a gravity in Jamie’s movements, a focus in Kyle’s posture—that screams this isn’t just casual chitchat. This is important. Big, even.
Damn it!
I edge closer, hoping to pick up at least a snippet of what they’re saying, but before I can get within earshot, Kyle shakes Jamie’s hand and claps him on the back.
Conversation over. And . . . I missed it entirely.
To really rub it in, when Jamie spots me approaching, he flashes that insufferably charming smile of his and says, “Oh, there you are! Good timing. You ready to go?”
No, Jamie. Not good timing. Very bad timing, in fact. I just missed the one thing I was really hoping to get out of this event.
But biting back my frustration, I plaster on a smile and say, “Sure.”
So we head outside, and it must be the rush of fresh air, but suddenly it’s like someone has cranked up the volume on my drunkenness—everything feels just a touch too wobbly.
“You all right?” Jamie asks, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Of course!” I wave him off with barely concealed indignation. “I told you. I can handle my drink.”
And yet when we reach a short flight of steps leading up to the car park—there are literally just five of them—I manage to lose my balance halfway up as if gravity has suddenly decided to toy with me for its own cruel amusement.
It happens so fast it doesn’t feel real—the backwards tilt, the yelp that catches in my throat—but... I don’t hit the ground. No, instead I fall back against a firm and unyielding chest, strong arms looping around my waist with a grip that’s both steadying and alarmingly warm. For a heartbeat all I can process is the heat radiating from Jamie McIntyre’s body.
His breath fans against the side of my neck in quick bursts as if even he’s surprised by how fast he reacted. And then there’s everything else: every point of contact between us suddenly firing off sparks as though someone’s dropped a live wire into my bloodstream.
And don’t even get me started on where my backside has landed.
Oh God.
Because, yes, my arse is snugly pressed against his groin.
A wave of mortification crashes over me. The position is wildly inappropriate, but that doesn’t stop my traitorous body from reacting in ways it absolutely shouldn’t right now.
We’re frozen there for what feels like an eternity but can only be a few seconds. Neither of us moves or speaks. The air hangs thick and charged around us, crackling with something too dangerous to name. I swear I can hear his heartbeat—or maybe it’s mine—pounding wildly in a rhythm far too intimate for a car park encounter.
“I’ve got it from here,” I blurt out abruptly.
“You sure?” Jamie’s words tickle my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
“Yes!”
Jamie’s hands retreat from me slowly, but even after they’re gone, and I’ve managed to make it up the last few steps in one piece, the memory of his touch lingers on me.